After a messy breakup, don’t use the experience to grow. Not when you could enjoy a proper seething and make that coldblooded gecko humper regret every moronic thing he’s ever done or at least fear for his life or his car’s paint job or his collection of baseball cards he accidentally left in your garage like he’s ever going to see those again ha ha ha.
Signs you’re tad bitter:
You bleed breakup bitterness into conversations with others (preferably that Ass Clown’s friends so they can tell old Pee Wee Penis himself how righteously angry you are and that you look amazing and that he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.)
Friend: This is a good cheese steak.
You: Harry is a cheese steak.
Friend: Huh? I mean this steak is really meaty.
You: Harry’s stupid face is really meaty.
Friend: Um. Ok. Why don’t you eat yours before it gets cold?
You: Oh, you mean cold like Harry’s ice cold heart?
Friend: *sigh* You’re hopeless.
You: Harry’s hopeless.
You stand underneath butt-munch’s window playing “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette wearing only one of those 1940’s bikinis that look like granny panty diapers. That shit is terrifying. When he comes out to confront you, make it clear that it is totally a coincidence that you’re in his neighborhood under his window holding aloft a boombox with skulls painted on your body in blood that you collected from him while he was sleeping.
Then explain to him what a boombox is and that you borrowed it from your grandmother. Give him a copy of Say Anything and explain you’re the John Cusack character, only bittery-er.
You write an insulting song about your breakup that is nominated for the MTV Video Music Awards. Attend the awards, and when the demon spawn subject of your song addresses the audience, roll your eyes and say “Shut the fuck up.” Jump out of your seat and dance like a bitter, bitter, alien-limbed marionette and do your best to draw attention to yourself so Poopyhead McAssholian can see how good you are with the whole breakup thing. Then, win best video for the breakup song you wrote, and just in case Detective Dickface didn’t read that your song was about him on the 40 billion entertainment web sites that reported it, announce that the subject of your song is in the audience and that he knows exactly who he is and note that all his bullshit just won you an freakin’ award, beeotch!
Pause while all the old “been there, done that” ladies face palm with embarrassment for you.
(Note: Peel Miley Cyrus off Robin Thicke to step in and make some sort of gang sign when you say “beeotch” because she’s good at that stuff.)
I guess it helps if you’re Taylor Swift for this one.
I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at an ex-boyfriend. Ever. I’m not a yeller. I’m not a fit thrower. If something is done, it’s done.
– Taylor Swift in Elle’s March 2013 Issue
Riiight, my Baroness of Bitterness. My Petulant Princess. My Songbird of Splitsville.
Never let them see you sweat, honey. And for god sakes, get a new bikini.
Harry Styles 1, Taylor 0.
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